"Zhi! ..."
Just as the longswords within that half-mountain of swords submerged Xu Taiping like a tide, a blade cry like a cicada's call suddenly pierced the black swords shooting toward him in waves and rang out explosively amid the chaotic ruins.
"Boom! ..."
Then a blade force resembling mountain spirit power briefly brought the tide of black swords to a standstill.
And in that instant, hundreds upon thousands of blade shadows like cicada wings tore through the air with piercing whistles, forcibly scattering the tide of black swords.
A figure burst out alongside those blade shadows.
The figure was lean, his magical robe in tatters, his chest and back covered in horrifying sword wounds.
Who else could it have been but Xu Taiping?
Among those watching this unfold, Chu Tiancheng, who had been deathly pale and scarcely dared to breathe in the side room, drew a sharp breath.
But immediately afterward, he frowned at Xu Taiping's figure and said:
"How strange. Why hasn't a single drop of blood flowed from all those sword wounds on Eldest Brother Taiping?"
He merely sensed instinctively that something was wrong, but did not know why.
Hearing this, Zhang Moyan, also a martial artist, suddenly tensed again, though his expression had relaxed considerably before.
Then he said gravely:
"I'm afraid it isn't that he hasn't bled, but that his qi and blood have run dry... he has no blood left to shed!"
As a martial artist, particularly one who had spent years fighting on battlefields, he often saw soldiers whose qi and blood had been exhausted in combat against demons. Though covered in wounds, they did not shed a single drop of blood.
This was clearly no good thing.
While they were discussing this, they saw Xu Taiping in the projection throw back his